The Hero is a Killer
by Wrenchy
Summary: I want to hear a poem about someone trying to be a hero -- killing himself, because he couldn't be who he wanted to be. No pairings -- onesided Ratchet x Clank if you squint. Oneshot. Rated for complication and swearing.


**Author's Note:** Songs.

By Nightwish.

Are _awesome_.

And they inspired me to write this. XD

I would totally recommend reading the lyrics (and listening to) Nemo and Dead Boy's Poem. They are the ones that inspired me the most here.

Okay, so…

The language is extremely thick. (Not colorful, lots of curse words – there's only like one or two… _thick_. As in, hard to read.) It's hard to understand what's going in this oneshot. If you can't, then I understand. So I'll just explain – it's a darker look on the Ratchet and Clank series, mostly about the planet Oltanis, which _fascinates _me beyond belief (plus I _love _the music to bits!) and that's where the inspiration comes from. Burning buildings, people dying… Ratchet killing to win… Eeee! I may draw a comic about what Ratchet literally does from the outside since this isn't just reflection. He _is _doing stuff in this oneshot. It's mostly just walking around and looking at people, but he _is _doing stuff.

This doesn't take place in any timeline in particular. It can take place in the first game, but it seems a bit too dark for Ratchet. Perhaps it takes place in the middle of ACiT or something. (I assure you that there aren't any spoilers, and Aphelion shows up nowhere in this fanfic, however. Not that I hate Aphelion; I want to make a oneshot about her and Ratchet sometime, actually.)

Enjoyyy.

**Disclaimer: **The ones _with _names, Ratchet and Clank, do not belong to me – nor does anything else related to them.

--

Well, it's just the world be damned, be _damned_, by the Creator, and saved by the Destroyer.

Burning, screaming, running, falling, not caught, not sought, just _dying_, just tripping, into an abyss of nothing, _nothing_, below. There's no shelter, nothing to look forward to, no window of truth, just _nothingness_, nothing nothing nothing. Sentries and lasers, shooting, aiming, ready to take away, having nothing to give, _ready to kill_. So why does he have sympathy, why does he even care, about the shooters and not the receiving? Or, actually, he _does _care about the receiving. He always cared about the receiving, much as it pained him to admit it, much as it took too long to admit it to _himself_, but the killers… were they not alive, too?

The world has two sides. It is not split, but rather it is together and yet different. Stare at it too long, and you may feel nothing, and yet everything, and yet you may feel _passion_, and yet you may feel anger, and yet you may feel rage. While at the same time, if you _think _too much into it, not just stare at it, not just _assume_, you feel a rush of confusion, a rush of absurdity, a rush of nothing and yet everything, a rush of _sadness_, a rush of empathy, a rush of something different. The world has three sides. Actually, it has four. It's never just two people – those who care and those who don't. It's those who care about _these people_, those who care about _this stuff_, those who care about nothing but themselves, and those who care about, well, _everything_.

He hates being categorized, he hates everyone assuming that he knows. He _hates _his best friend, hates him, because he's _one of them_.

_A hero? A __**hero**__? And to whom is he a hero? And to whom is he a __**villain**__? _And who screams at his appearance? No, scratch that. Whoscreams in _agony_, in _fear_, at his appearance, and who screams in _happiness_, in _cheer_? _Whose side is he on?_

_Help me out, I can't figure it out, _he cries to the world, but it doesn't know, either. It doesn't know its _own _position, whether it is being destroyed or ripped anew. All it knows is that its buildings are burning. It knows only the literal, the sky is doused a dark purple – no wait, is it really _dark_? – and its people are screaming. What are its people screaming? It doesn't know. What are its people thinking? It doesn't know. All it knows is its path is nothingness, its path is to end in someone else's gain, its path is to end in another's suffering, its path is uncertain and it knows nothing of the intentions, but it knows all about what will happen to it. Is it cold or is it hot? It's too variable. It depends too much on where you are. It depends too much on what you think of it. It depends too much on _who _you are. It depends on if you're talking about the literal or the figurative. It _depends_.

And as he hears the shaking voice, the blue creature, _Terror Itself_ as he has named it, lip quivering, sounding on the edge of desperation, he wonders – _is this person thinking of himself or of the world he lives in? _Staring at the burning buildings, he thinks, _I have no home_, but does he think of what the world has to say? Does he think of the natural stability of the world, how it was affected by him living there in the first place, not just by the wear and tear that the world was receiving now? People don't think. He doesn't think. He doesn't think about his world is affected by him – only by how he is affected by the world. _And the world screams around him, but he doesn't listen. He only listens to his own screams, and the screams of his companions._

And is Ratchet one to speak? Is he one to _think_? His gloves, supposed to be a chocolate color, an enthusiastic color, a sentimental color, one of Veldin, one of his own planet, one of the dusty red, one of the clear blue of the open skies – reflected deadly by the murky counterpart, the sky flashing only on occasion, showing not a beacon of hope – and _why _would light resemble that, if it blinds and it_ kills_? – bathed and dappled with sin, with _red_ and _life _yet death at the same time, taking and not giving. Rain doesn't wash away the state of being sentient – numbness does, and that is something Ratchet has faced so long, Ratchet has basked in so long. But now he sees the light, the normally deceiving, tricky, scary, _defying _light, and he sees himself, and he sees a being. _And he sees other beings, at the end of its claws._

We try to rectify the situation. He does, too. He says it doesn't matter. He says he shouldn't care. Those that had been at gunpoint, at _his _gunpoint more like, had reasoning behind it – had reasoning behind dropping to the floor. Yes, it was so others _wouldn't_. His friends. His family, if it still exists. He says they had nothing to live for, anyway. But that wasn't true, was it? The Blarg – the creatures he fought – they were a race. They weren't (and still aren't) just bowing down and kissing the villain's feet. They lived. They breathed. _Like him_. Emphasis on _lived_. The life running through their veins, the thing pumping them to keep going on – it was there. Just like it is still in him.

Does anyone cry for them? Would he cry? No, he wouldn't. He didn't know them. And rain, _rain_, it's spit, it's spit from the clouds, the _clouds_, with disapproval, with nothing but hatred, spreading across the vast expanse we call a "planet." No, _nothing _would make up for it, nothing nothing nothing. There would always be that blanket spot where they once stood. There would always be that emptiness of nothing but air. Air, wind, wind, it takes advantage of it, too. It boasts. It's greedy. Like _him_. Like Drek. Greedy, greedy – nature's greedy, and what do the buildings have to say about it? What does the planet have to say about it? It doesn't know. It knows nothing. It's confused as he is.

What does he live for? He doesn't know what they lived for but he's certain they had a clue. He doesn't have a clue. He was alone. For years _years years _on Veldin, _alone alone alone _had nothing and no one to share time with. Well he wasn't, truly. There were creatures. There _are _creatures. They're still mucking about there. They're still staring at him. They're still waiting for him, for the normalcy to return. _What _normalcy? Don't they know there _is _none? But they're still waiting, waiting, waiting.

_Selfish. _He's selfish. He didn't think about that before.

And what of the robot? No, he likes him. Or maybe he hates him. Or maybe it's both. He doesn't know – just like the wilderness doesn't know. The buildings don't know if they like or hate those who live in them. And Ratchet doesn't know if he likes or hates his companion. _Companion. Sidekick. _No, not sidekick. Because you feel nothing for a sidekick – just, a _servant_. And what does he feel about Ratchet? Probably _nothing_. Because Ratchet's the sidekick. _He's the killing machine. He's the one who did everything. _He's the master of disaster, the _building _of the world – just a building block to a bigger piece. So why does he feel for Clank if Clank doesn't feel for him back, just as a con, someone to use for his own purposes?

Maybe that's how he understands the people inside the buildings. They maintain the buildings, they help the buildings, they live in the buildings, but the buildings will give them no affection. It's the affection they put in the buildings that they are afraid to lose. Except for, it's slightly flip-flopped.

_Clank made him who he was._

But Clank didn't care.

No, he only cared about saving the universe. Or maybe he did care. He is uncertain. The world is uncertain.

And lighting _scares _him. Damn lightning. It _scares _him and blinds him and shows him too much that he cares too much too much like he cares too much. Why did it scare him? Why did it scare him when Clank was the one to fall? Why does it scare him so much? _Because he's afraid it's his fault?_

Why does it make so much difference when it's someone you know?

_It shouldn't make a difference since a killer's a killer and a killer kills himself in order to kill others._

Ratchet knows he's trying to kill himself.

It's hard.

He wishes he could be as simple as Clank, taking everything at face value, as a good versus evil, as if the world _isn't _alive and cannot think, as if he's not part of it, as if he doesn't affect the world and it only affects _him_. But Clank's not selfish, far from it. He's not closed-minded, far from it. He's just never felt blood on his hands. _He can't feel anything at all except for affection and uncertainty. _He's never known the sense of dread, because he believes they can pull through. He's never known the sense of separation, since he has known nobody besides Ratchet – and his mother, of course, but he keeps a secret connection with her. And he can talk to ships if he gets lonely.

"Ratchet," he had asked, as the Lombax jumped out of the ship, that same trademark smirk on his face. A _lie. _A clever ruse. But then again, the whole world is full of that. And he wasn't adding to it, no, he was simply mimicking it, "why do you still leave me in here? It is just lightning. I can handle it."

And why would Ratchet care, why would Ratchet feel moved by that? It meant nothing. He was saying nothing. _No Clank doesn't care he doesn't he doesn't he never cared it was always Captain Qwark and the universe never me it was never about me stop being selfish Ratchet stop believing in this it's stupid it's stupid why must you destroy why must you do this to yourself why why why…_

"Just stay in there."

_Ha!_

Just stay in there. Ratchet, you kill yourself sometimes.

No wait, you're attempting to do that. You just haven't succeeded yet, have you?

_Have you?_

Because you want to feel nothing, you dirty little bastard. You want to do as they say. You want to stop being so so so so _keen_. It's just business, business. All you have been thinking about is your own blood and you pity yourself, _pity yourself_, because it must mix with other blood, it must mix with your enemy's blood, for nothing other than a ruse, a _lie_, directed by none other than Drek. None other than Greed at its greatest.

And that flare in your chest. Can't suppress it, can you? Clank can sense it. He knows you care. He just _doesn't care back_. Or perhaps he does. Not that it matters, anyhow. You're not supposed to care. You're just to do as they say. So _do it do it do it._

_Bang bang!_

Pew pew pow pow.

_There goes down another strike! Yeeeeehawww!_

Why aren't I cheering…

Why does the cheering make no sense to me anymore…

_**Stupid**__, __**stupid **__emotions go away!_

Did it hurt?

Did it hurt when the shot hit you, Ratchet?

Well, guess it did.

Guess it didn't.

Does it matter?

_Drip, drip._

They all surround him now. It's not just the rain drops that give him company anymore, but the _wet _bodies of creatures, creatures that had been living, as well as robots, robots that had been operational, all around him. Blarg and robots. What a lovely combination – red and gray and dark red and dark gray and blue and green. Stupid color combinations. Just blind the world like the lightning does.

Dull ache in his chest. Hurts a little, but it doesn't matter, because nothing matters.

A scarlet letter – a trace of the finger, _drip drip_, red and alive, _drip drip_, glove on and yet the blood can be felt, _drip drip_, tipping the ground, running along the smooth surface. Writing, writing, to whom in particular? Nobody. Guess the world, perhaps. And the world could respond, maybe. Perhaps.

_To whom it may concern,_

_ Which is nobody._

_ Does anyone listen to me?_

_ Do I listen to __**myself**__?_

_ This world is damned. It is. But it's not damned because of the Blarg. It's not damned because of the destruction, either. It's damned because I walked on it and deemed it damned. It's damned because people walked on it and deemed it damned. They say it's damned, so it is. When you say something is something, it is that something. It's damned. __**Because the people on it are.**_

_ What color is the ground? Is it red? No, because then you wouldn't see this. No one would see this. Is it blue? But blue is a calming color, and it's not calming. Is it pink? But pink symbolizes love – and this world is damned. And the damned can't love._

_ Perhaps it's yellow. But that's an alerting color. Is lightning yellow? No. It's white. White brings terror, white brings more terror than black. I would give anything for black right now. I would give anything to see black, but I see white, __**white streaks of light in the sky**__, DEATH DEATH I want to be away from death. I want peace, I want love. I'm lonely. I'm alone._

_ Would someone sing a song for me? I don't want to hear those songs anymore that are about death. I don't want to hear songs about your boyfriend breaking up on you. I don't want to hear songs about how nature is pretty, about how the world is perfect._

_ I want to hear a poem._

_ I want to hear a poem – about someone writing a poem. About someone trying to be a hero. About someone killing himself, because he couldn't be who he wanted to be. About someone who kills to get what he wants – but he actually thinks about the people of whom he's killed. Not something like Superman fighting just to save the girl – I mean, a guy who really wants to save the innocence of the world, who really wants __**peace**__._

_ And I'm crying. __**I'm crying! **__I'm living. I'm breathing. I'm sentient. __**I don't want to be sentient. **__And yet I want to be at the same time. Are the dead sentient? Perhaps they are._

_ Searching,_

_ Ratchet_

And he would see white soon, too. White of the hospital.

He didn't want to see a hospital. He didn't want to see heaven, either. He didn't want to see anything but black. _Black black black_. Or gray – or the grayness of Clank, or the light green of his eyes, the comforting thought…

_Thud._

Curtain of black…

_I don't want to wake up to white. Please, don't let me wake up to white._


End file.
